All the power of Chu-bu veered round at once and
set dead against an earthquake, even a little one. It was thus in the
temple of Chu-bu for some time, and then no earthquake came.
To be a god and to fail to achieve a miracle is a despairing
sensation; it is as though among men one should determine upon a
hearty sneeze and as though no sneeze should come; it is as though one
should try to swim in heavy boots or remember a name that is utterly
forgotten: all these pains were Sheemish's.
And upon Tuesday the priests came in, and the people, and they did
worship Chu-bu and offered fat to him, saying, "O Chu-bu who made
everything," and then the priests sang, "There is also Sheemish"; and
Chu-bu was put to shame and spake not for three days.
Now there were holy birds in the temple of Chu-bu, and when the third
day was come and the night thereof, it was as it were revealed to the
mind of Chu-bu, that there was dirt upon the head of Sheemish.
And Chu-bu spake unto Sheemish as speak the gods, moving no lips nor
yet disturbing the silence, saying, "There is dirt upon thy head, O
Sheemish." All night long he muttered again and again, "there is dirt
upon Sheemish's head." And when it was dawn and voices were heard far
off, Chu-bu became exultant with Earth's awakening things, and cried
out till the sun was high, "Dirt, dirt, dirt, upon the head of
Sheemish," and at noon he said, "So Sheemish would be a god.
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